


Ever Easy

by misaffection



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard is leaving and Camille is going on a date. So why are neither of them happy?</p><p>Pre-emptive fix it fic for Season Two's closure. Very vague spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Easy

“I wondered if you’d like to come for dinner.”

Camille eyes Eustache. He’s nice, but seems too young and far too sweet. Still, it’s an age since someone showed an interest in her, since she last had a date and it’s not like there’s anything else to do.

She knows he’s watching and she gives Eustache a wide smile. “I’d like that.”

Her mother would kill her for playing games, but she’s not. Not really. It’s just that if he’s moving on, then she doesn’t have a reason not to.

_“I think I’m going back to London.”_

Knowing her smile is brittle, she stands and leans in, kisses Eustache on the cheek before walking away. She feels his eyes on her back, but he doesn’t say anything. He never does, and it’s killing her. Whatever she orders tonight, she needs something obscenely alcoholic to go with it.

At home, Camille flicks through her wardrobe, her enthusiasm for the evening dampened by who she’s not spending it with. Maybe this is what going crazy feels like. She chooses the red dress because and ignores the guilt that spikes through her. It’s stupid and she’s not a teen with a crush any more. She has to get over this, before she does go mad.

She dresses to the nines, with make-up and jewellery and high heels. When she walks out, it feels like she’s walking on broken glass. She takes a deep breath and wraps her heart in ice and drives down to the bar.

Eustache is waiting for her, drink in hand. Camille catches the rise of her mother’s eyebrows, but thankfully doesn’t say anything. She isn’t stupid enough to imagine that she doesn’t know, but maybe she’s heard. Saint-Marie isn’t that big an island and the new that chief of police was moving back to the UK would have burnt down the damn grapevine.

There’s nowhere near enough vodka in her drink.

They sit outside. The sky is a deep blue scattered with stars. Conversation buzz and crickets chirp and it’s all perfect. Except that it’s not and she can’t pretend that it is. She paints a smile on her face.

Catherine shakes her head when she orders another drink. “What are you _doing_?”

“Having fun.”

“Oh, it looks like it.” Sarcasm laces her mother’s voice. Then her expression softens. “I heard.”

“Yes, I imagine that most have.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

Pressure builds behind her eyes. “I can’t. His damn stupid principles–” She stops and shakes her head. If she asks him, she’ll ruin everything. And yet it seems he refuses to make the first move. “Why is this so hard?”

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

Camille sighs. “That would be fine, if I had time. I’ve run out, maman.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Finish my dinner,” she says and takes her vodka back to the table.

Afterwards, Eustache walks her home. She lets him kiss her cheek, but doesn’t invite him in. They make vague arrangements for another date that she’s no intention of keeping. Once he’s gone, she kicks off her heels, lets her hair down and curls on the sofa. The lights are off, the TV silent. In the hush, the distant rumble of an airplane sounds very loud. Camille hugs a cushion to her chest and tries very hard not to cry.

But he’s going to leave and there is not a thing she can do to prevent it.

She fails completely.

* * *

Richard drinks rarely, avoidance of alcohol another product of his childhood, but it seems a viable answer to his current problem. At least it’s Scotch, though the quality leaves a lot to be desired. Like a few other things.

He can go home. He should be delighted. Was, until he blurted the news out and saw the pain in her eyes. And now she was on a date with a younger man, one who isn’t thinking of leaving on an airplane in the morning.

He can be a right stupid idiot at times.

That’s why he’s sat on the beach in the dark, rather than doing something. An idiot _and_ a coward. But he’s going home tomorrow. He’s doing the right thing. So why does it feel wrong? The Scotch burns a trail down his throat as he swallows, trying to loosen the knot there.

England. London. It’s half a world away in distance, further in terms of… well, just about everything else. Saint-Marie is hot and sunny and laid-back. London is cold and wet and business-like. It has decent tea, and crumpets, and dear God but he’d be able to watch television he’d actually understand.

But seeing Anderson again reminded him of what he left behind. He’s no longer all that keen on going back to being the odd-one-out, the one excluded. He doesn’t want to be _Dickie_ again.

He doesn’t want to go back.

The realisation courses like ice down his spine. He wedges the bottle in the sand and stares at the ocean washing up the shore. And for once, he just sits and absorbs – the sound of the water, the smell of salt, the touch of a breeze, the feel of cool sand. The things he knows he’ll miss, but there is one thing he’d miss more.

“Right,” he says. “That is quite enough.”

He’s not terribly steady on his feet. Determination keeps him upright and then it’s one step after another. He doesn’t think, for once. Just keeps walking, because if he goes tomorrow without knowing…

He can’t. He needs to know. It’s one mystery he can’t solve, not without more answers and she’s the only one with them. Perhaps handling this like a case isn’t the best way to approach the problem, but it’s what he knows.

Outside her house, he stops, unsure. What if she brought Eustache home? What if she doesn’t want to see him? There are no lights on inside – perhaps she’s not even here. He’s drunk. He should go back to the shack and…

What? Leave in the morning without speaking to her first? Without knowing? _No._

Richard knocks on the door before he can chicken out.

The door opens. She stares at him with eyes smudged with mascara. The knowledge that she’s been crying kicks him in the gut. And he’s no idea what to say, because he’s never been good at this and even half a bottle of Scotch isn’t helping.

“Richard?” Her voice cracks. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s…” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “That’s a very good question.”

Her lips twitch. “Are you _drunk_?”

“Not entirely. The Scotch wasn’t good enough.”

She laughs; a startled hiccup of sound. He looks past her, at the darkened house. It could mean anything. Or nothing at all. He doesn’t think she’s been crying over Eustache.

“I…” he says and then runs out of words. She arches an eyebrow. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing. Talking to people I… care about. About how I feel. But I needed to… I couldn’t go.”

That pain sparks in her eyes again and he almost swears. He’s _really_ not good at this. Not good at words. But he needs to do something. There’s half a bottle of Scotch in his stomach and he is a little drunk. While it doesn’t help with his words, it fuels a moment of insanity.

Camille gasps. Stiffens in shock. Then her arms are round his neck and she’s kissing him back and _damn._

He can’t go home, because he’s already there.


End file.
